


Six Months

by EtLaBete



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtLaBete/pseuds/EtLaBete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's trying to hide from the Fourth of July fireworks in Natasha's basement when he meets Steve, who's trying to do the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. July

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Stucky fic! I can't believe how much I enjoy Stucky AU, but I really, really do. I hope you guys enjoy!

Bucky wonders if he will ever be normal.

He was a lot of things before Afghanistan. Fearless, careless, and carefree, and if he had a compass that pointed north, north was always trouble. He was smart, too, smart and dependable even though he liked to cross boundaries. Life wasn’t easy, per say, but Bucky usually found the glass to be half full. If it wasn’t, he made it that way because people make their own luck and create their own destinies. He believed that, and he lived by it. He laughed and fucked and _lived_ , and he did it all with vigor. 

And then he had his arm blown off in a desert thousands of miles from home, and a part of him was literally and figuratively left there, dusted with sand and more sand until he was pretty sure he’d never be able to find it again even if he had a bulldozer. 

That’s why he’s sitting in his friend’s basement on the Fourth of July while everyone else is outside, sinking back into the cushions of a well-worn couch he hopes will swallow him whole. 

Once upon a time, James Buchanan Barnes would be lighting the fireworks with the rest of them, but now he’s too jumpy, and he hates it. He hates himself. He doesn’t want any of them to see him flinch, doesn’t want a particularly loud or unexpected bang to send him to the floor with his real arm and his fake arm thrown over his head. He doesn’t want the pitying looks or the sudden silence that always follows. 

So, even though Natasha, the stubborn boar that she is, forced him to come to the celebration, he sits by himself and wishes he’d thought to bring a few beers down with him. He doesn’t like to overdue the drinking; when he got back, all of his other coping mechanisms had gone to shit, so he’d drowned himself in beer and cheap vodka until Nat had literally beaten some sense into him. He drinks occasionally now but tries to avoid it when he’s stressed because he doesn’t want to fall back into bad habits. 

He could really use a beer, though. 

He’s strongly considering sneaking out to the yard to rifle through the cooler and smuggle down some beverages when there’s a loud bang and then muffled cheering from the direction of the festivities. Bucky huddles back into the cushions, closes his eyes, and inhales. He holds his breath for ten seconds like his therapist recommended, and then he exhales slowly. 

When he opens his eyes, there’s a blonde guy standing in the doorway, blue eyes wide. He’s tall and muscled with a baby face, and it throws Bucky off. No one with biceps like that should also wear khakis and a button up.

“I’m sorry,” the man says, and his voice trembles so slightly Bucky almost misses it. “I didn’t realize anyone was down here.”

Bucky sits up straighter. He doesn’t know this guy, doesn’t know half of the people Nat invited over, but somewhere in his mind, a voice yells _same_ , so Bucky tries to smile. “It’s cool,” he manages, grateful that his voice is steady. “Just taking a breather from the crowd, you know?”

The other man nods and just stands there. 

“You wanna sit?” Bucky offers with a raised brow.

The man looks relieved. “If you don’t mind.” 

He sits down at the other end of the couch, and Bucky angles towards him, glad his left arm is somewhat obstructed from view. He actually likes this arm better than the old one. Skin-colored, stiff prosthetics creep Bucky out, so when one of Nat’s fancy government friends got him in to a robotics trial, he jumped at the opportunity. The hook up hurt way more than just hoisting on a regular prosthetic since his nerves had to be literally connected like a goddamned USB cable to the new metal arm, but once that was over and he started to acclimate to how it functioned, it was a dream. 

People focus on it more, though, and they’re less likely to be tactful about asking questions, which annoys Bucky like hell. He may have been a punk of a kid growing up, but his mother taught him manners. 

“I’m Steve,” the other guy says, derailing Bucky’s thoughts. He holds out his right hand. “Steve Rogers. I’m a friend of Sam’s.”

Bucky takes the hand— hard, warm, firm— shakes. “Bucky Barnes. I’m Nat’s friend.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You’re Bucky?”

“Whatever she told you was a lie,” Bucky says with an easy grin, and he thinks about how this is the first time he’s smiled all night and meant it.

And then some more fireworks shatter his calm.

He flinches and presses back against the couch cushions because even if they’re stuffed with feathers, something behind him is better than nothing. He closes his eyes and inhales, counts to three before he remembers he isn’t alone.

Steve is hunched over, forehead nearly at his knees, and his fingers threaded through his hair. Bucky can’t see his face, but he knows, just knows that the other man is struggling against the same fight or flight response that courses through Bucky. 

“They’re just fireworks, Steve,” he says calmly, hoping the pep talk he gives himself in his head will sound as good out loud. “Nothing to worry about, you know? Just fireworks. Probably those ones that have a toy soldier on a parachute in them. You ever shoot those off as a kid? Then you had to fight all the other kids for it when it was landing.”

Steve turns his head to look at Bucky. He’s pale and his lips are pulled down at the corners, and Bucky thinks he’s about to tell Bucky to shove it— Bucky knows the feeling, has done it before in an attempt to get well-meaning people to shut up so he can wrangle his thoughts— but understanding dawns in Steve’s eyes. “Captain Steve Rogers, home for three months.”

“Sergeant Bucky Barnes, home for thirteen months,” Bucky replies quietly. “Good to meet you, Cap.” 

“James!”

They both jump and turn towards the door. Natasha appears a moment later and leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. She gives Bucky a look, red curls falling into her face. “We talked about this, James.”

“I’m not hiding, per say,” Bucky begins with an easy grin. 

“Bullshit,” she replies and arches a brow. “I saved you some sparklers, you little shit.” 

Bucky laughs and feels the remainder of his tension ease away. He doesn’t allow anyone else to give him shit about his newfound antisocial ways, but Natasha, she gets it. She doesn’t treat him with kid gloves, just calls him out and tells him he’s stronger than the fear. Sometimes she also tells him he’s an idiot, and he appreciates that, too. She keeps him honest. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” He nods towards his couch companion. “I was just talking to Steve. You know, making friends, like you tell me to.”

Natasha’s eyes travel to Steve and her second eyebrow arches to match the first. “I was wondering where you disappeared to, Steve,” she says warmly, but there’s a quirk to her lips. “Sam was looking for you.”

“I was trying to find the bathroom,” Steve says and smiles, cheeks dimpling. “I ran in to Bucky, though, and we started talking.” 

“Well, I’m glad you two are being so friendly and all—“ She bears her teeth in a smile that fools everyone else, but Bucky knows she’s trying to egg him on. “—it’s time for cake, birthday boy.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “It’s your birthday?”

Steve honest-to-God blushes. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Captain America!”

Steve groans. 

Bucky is able to hold the laugh back, but he can’t help the grin he’s losing against. “Captain America, huh?”

Steve doesn’t reply, just pouts, and Bucky’s stomach tightens. 

Sam, Natasha’s next-door neighbor, appears in the doorway, as well. He’s dark skinned and lean, and Bucky isn’t sure he’s ever seen Sam not smiling. It was actually Sam who sobered him up a little less than a year ago when he found Bucky passed out drunk on Natasha’s front porch, soaked from the rain, and when Bucky was coherent enough, it was Sam who said, “You’re not alone, man.” 

Bucky believes in making his own luck, sure, but he still thanks his lucky stars that Natasha’s neighbor not only happened to find him that night, but also happened to work for Veteran’s Affairs. Bucky’s pretty sure he’d be in someone’s gutter by now if not for the Sam. 

Sam’s grinning now, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “You can’t stop it, Steve. It’s going to happen.” 

“I’m not eating that monstrosity of a cake you bought.”

“But it’s so patriotic!” Sam says and does some jazz fingers. “We’re gonna put sparklers on it, Rogers. Come on.” 

“Sparklers? You guys know I love sparklers,” Bucky says as he stands and stretches. He looks down in time to watch Steve’s gaze travel the length of his torso from hips to chest before he looks away. Bucky swallows. “I mean, cake, yeah, but who can say no to sparklers?”

“We’re gonna sing so loud, man,” Sam says with a grin and throws an arm around around Steve when he reluctantly stands and shuffles towards the door. 

Sam and Steve head up the stairs, but Natasha stops Bucky from following with a hand on his arm.

“You’re okay?” she asks, no softness or hesitation, just a question.

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Well, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Bucky nudges her with his metal elbow, which she loops her hand through. “You didn’t tell me you were friends with that.” 

“Oh, Steve?” she says innocently, but when Bucky looks at her, she’s grinning. “I didn’t think he was your type.”

He rolls his eyes. “Natalia, that man is everyone’s type. I mean, look at him Just look at him..” 

Nat sniggers and they head up the stairs and out the backdoor in time to watch Sam light the sparklers on the cake. The cake is… well, everyone is cackling, including Sam who is laughing so hard he almost sets himself on fire twice. The behemoth pastry is three tiered, frosted red, white, and blue, decorated with stars, and has Steve’s face on the side with “Happy Birthday Captain America” written below it. Sam begins to sing happy birthday and Steve, blushing, stands there with his hands clasped in front of him, rocking on his heels. Everyone joins in. 

Bucky can’t sing for shit, but does anyway, Natasha still holding on to his arm. As the song comes to a close, Steve smiles and nods, muttering things like “great” and “you guys are the best” and “I hate my birthday.” When his gaze settles on Bucky, he just smiles, and then he blows out the sparklers.


	2. August

Steve sits on Sam’s front porch, his sketchbook propped against one knee. A half-finished portrait of Sam is waiting to be finished, but the other man had to step inside and take a call. Day off or not, Sam takes his work at the VA seriously, and his normal “open door” policy during business hours turns into an “open phone” policy when he’s not at work. Steve doesn’t mind. He appreciates Sam’s dedication, more so now than ever. His own case worker isn’t nearly as flexible even though he’s a very nice, helpful man, and while it doesn’t affect Steve, especially since he has someone like Sam to support him through the bad days, he knows that other veterans would benefit from Sam’s caring and friendly nature. 

Plus, Steve enjoys the solitude sometimes. Sam’s neighborhood is residential and quiet, and sure, there are kids scattered around, but for the most part, it’s just Steve, the sun, and the blue sky. It’s not often that he finds such calm calling D.C. home, especially since he lives in the heart of the District, whereas Sam was smart enough to settle down just outside of the craziness of city life. 

He’s considering putting his feet on the porch rail and letting the afternoon August warmth lull him into a nap when Natasha’s car pulls up next door. Steve really, really likes Natasha. She’s a no-bullshit kind of woman with a quick wit and a sharp, dry sense of humor, while she doesn’t smile easily, she’s friendly and honest. She doesn’t treat Steve like he’s made of glass, either, not even on the nights she comes over to have a drink and Steve is in a mood because he hasn’t slept for days due to the nightmares.

The engine cuts, and Steve smiles and starts to call a greeting when Natasha gets out of the car. The frown on her face is so intense it looks painful, and there’s a sheen to her eyes that makes Steve wonder if she’s been crying. He doesn’t get the feeling that Natasha cries easily. He’s not sure if it’s his place to offer comfort, and he doesn’t realize there’s another person in the car until Natasha walks over to the passenger side and opens the door. 

Bucky turns in the seat to set his feet on the curb. Steve’s only met Bucky once, but Natasha and Sam talk about him often, and the way Bucky handled Steve’s semi-panic attack on his birthday impacted Steve on several levels. Bucky’s been home longer, sure, but Steve’s listened to men and women at the VA meetings who have been home for years and still can’t break away from the triggers. And Bucky— he doesn’t know details, but he knows Bucky was involved in a pretty nasty IED explosion that took out several other soldiers. And yet, on the night of the fireworks, Bucky talked Steve down like it was no big deal even though he was obviously frazzled, too. He smiled easily, and Steve felt immediately at ease. Steve is a friendly person, but it takes a lot for him to feel completely comfortable with someone, and he felt that with Bucky immediately. 

It doesn’t hurt that Bucky is, quite possibly, the most attractive man Steve’s ever seen. He hasn’t been with anyone in over two years, not since he and Peggy broke things off just before he was shipped off to Afghanistan for the third time. The distance was too much for her, which Steve understands. Peggy is a strong, independent woman who knew what she wanted, and even if she wanted Steve, he was only there part of the time. They’re still friends, were friends before they were lovers, but it’s not the same, and something inside of Steve craves that intimacy. 

But not now. Not when the inside of his skull is still such a mess. 

Regardless, he likes Bucky, he wants to reach out because he hasn’t seen him in a month, and he’s interested in getting to know the other soldier, but the pained expression on Bucky’s face stops him. If Natasha looks bad, Bucky looks like he’s just been through hell and come back partially alive. Dark circles surround his red eyes, and his pale face is contorted into a grimace. He hunches over, arms pulled tightly to his body, and when Natasha finally helps to get him out of the car, he drags his feet like he’s got two tons of weight on his shoulders. Natasha walks next to him, not supporting him but looking like she’d be ready to in a millisecond if he toppled over. 

Steve thinks it’s a likely possibility. Bucky looks dead on his feet.

Steve can’t hold himself back, so he stands and opens his mouth to offer them some help when Natasha shoots him a look that makes him snap his lips closed and sit back down. They disappear inside the house, the door slamming behind them, and Steve just stares. 

Sam finally comes back out onto the porch with two beers. He hands one to Steve, takes a sip of his own, and asks, “What’s up?”

“Natasha and Bucky just went inside,” Steve explains, frowning. “Bucky looked like he was in bad shape.”

“What’s the date again?”

“August 2nd.”

Sam whistles under his breath. “Ah, makes sense. Nat mentioned he had an appointment today.”

“Appointment?” 

“Buck has maintenance and testing every few months since he’s involved in that trial. I haven’t met anyone else with his specific prosthetic, but I hear things can be painful when they have to tinker with it.”

Steve’s frown deepens. “It’s painful? Why?”

Sam raises a brow. “He doesn’t have some run-of-the-mill prosthetic arm, man. I know you kind of saw it at your birthday. Nat got him into a trial with Stark Industries. They’ve been working on prosthetics that hook up directly to the nervous system so your brain can control it like it would a real arm. It’s pretty cool.” 

Steve nods, but doesn’t really know what to say.

“He’ll be fine.” Sam claps Steve on the shoulder. “You could just ask him out on a—“

“Stop right there,” Steve says. “I don’t know why your mind keeps going there, but it isn’t happening. I am in no place to be dating or even considering it right now.”

“Steve, Steve. It’s okay to be attracted to someone. It’s been a while since Peggy. You’ve gotta jump back in at some point.”

“That’s not what my hesitation is about, Sam, and you know it.”

Sam raises a brow. He knows Steve’s hang-up, and Sam knows that he knows, but Steve can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s going to rib Steve anyway.

“I see, I see,” Sam says and strokes his closely cropped goatee. “Didn’t your mom have the birds and the bees discussion with you when you were a kid? Do I need to have it with you now? ‘Cause I love you, but I really don’t know how that will go. I’ve never been with a dude before, so I’m not sure I can explain all of the details—”

“Sam, seriously,” Steve warns and feels his cheeks pinken. 

The other man just grins and sits in his chair. 

They fall back into comfortable conversation and Steve picks his sketchbook back up. He’s just about finished the shading on Sam’s face when he hears a door open. He looks up and finds Natasha walking towards Sam’s porch.

“Hey, Nat,” Sam calls and offers a wave.

She mounts the stairs, grabs Sam’s beer out of his hand, and chugs the remainder of the bottle in three seconds. 

“Oh-kay, then,” Sam says with an impressed nod. “I’ll go get us some refills.”

“Appreciated,” Natasha says and sinks into Sam’s vacated chair. 

Steve isn’t really sure what to say once Sam disappears into the house, so he doesn’t say anything, and they sit in a somewhat comfortable silence. Natasha just stares at the street, hardly blinking, the only other movement her chest rising and falling as she takes in controlled breaths. Steve flips to a new page and starts sketching her profile. The shape of her face and the pucker of her lips reminds him of the Victorian cameos his mother loved, so he incorporates a border. If Natasha notices him staring at her, she doesn’t say anything. 

Sam returns with more beer. “How’s he doing?”

Natasha’s nostrils flare and she inhales sharply through her nose. “He’s out cold. It was a rough morning.”

“I can imagine,” Sam says and leans against the porch rail. “How are you doing?”

Natasha looks up at Sam through her lashes. “I’m good.”

Sam nods and doesn’t push, and the three of them relax for the next few hours. Sam slowly pulls Natasha out of her dark mood, and by the late afternoon, she’s smiling a little and seems more relaxed. Steve loves that about Sam, how he can take someone who’s wound up tight and help them unwind without them even realizing it. 

Natasha doesn’t offer any more details about the morning or about Bucky, but she goes to check on him a few times, and in the early evening, they trade their place on the porch for Sam’s backyard so he can start grilling. Natasha falls onto one of the cushioned lounge chairs and she doses off, and Steve is useless when it comes to cooking, so he trades his sketchbook for a novel. 

He doesn’t notice Bucky shuffle into the backyard, not until Sam calls, “Hey, sleeping beauty!”

Natasha’s eyes open immediately— Steve wonders if she was actually asleep— and she sits up with the grace of a cat ready to pounce. Bucky, wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, waves her to stay sitting before she stands, and she watches him with narrowed eyes as he makes his way to her chair and plops down on the end of it. His hair is pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, and he looks so tired, but he smiles lopsidedly at Natasha’s concerned glare.

“That smells good,” he rasps. “I hope you’re feeding me, Wilson. I haven’t eaten since last night.” 

“It’s all I’m good for,” Sam replies with a grin. “How do you like your steak?”

“Medium rare.” 

“You got it.” 

Bucky turns towards Steve. He smiles, but the expression is somewhat guarded. Steve understands. They don’t know each other and Bucky’s had a hard day. Steve’s not surprised when Bucky’s right hand reaches over and rubs at his left upper arm. The man licks his lips and says, “Good to see you again, Cap.”

Steve sets down his book and smiles. “You, too.” 

Bucky nods, his eyes not leaving Steve’s face, and Steve wonders if the other man expects him to stare at the metal fingers peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt, but Steve doesn’t. Bucky smiles after a few seconds, one cheek dimpling.

Steve’s heart flutters briefly before he goes back to his book. 

Later that night, they’re still sitting in the yard, bellies full. Sam lights the torches that keep the bugs away, and Bucky and Natasha huddle together on a chair. Natasha plays with Bucky’s hair, braids strands of it before combing them out with her fingers, and Bucky looks like a smitten cat at the attention, eyelids drooping. The expression strikes a chord in Steve, so he takes out his sketchbook again and focuses on the way the flames highlight and shadow the planes of Bucky’s face. Bucky has an amazing bone structure, and even though he’s wearing loose clothing, Steve can make out the lean muscle beneath. He thinks a lot of art students would kill for a man like Bucky to be a live model, and the thought makes heat rise up Steve’s neck and dot his cheeks. He’s glad it’s dark so no one can see. 

Bucky tucks a strand of hair behind his ear with his left hand, and Steve’s eyes immediately focus on his metal fingers. The torch flames make them glimmer orange, and Steve thinks it looks eerily beautiful. 

Bucky glances at Steve. There’s something about his eyes in the dark, the way they look like smoldering coals from the reflection of the fire, that make Steve’s stomach flop around. Bucky takes several seconds to smile, but he does, slow and languid, and Steve hopes that the smile he offers back doesn’t give him away.


	3. September

Bucky’s house-sitting for Natasha, who’s off on some top-secret government business. Not to say he doesn’t spend most of his free time at her place, anyway. He likes Natasha’s place because the guest bedroom (also known as Bucky’s bedroom) is comfy, the fridge always has food in it, and it’s close to his part-time job at the body shop. Her television is ginormous, too, and she’s got an Apple TV, which makes it easy for Bucky to binge-watch Netflix. 

“Why don’t you move in with me?” she said a few weeks back while they were watching HGTV and eating ice cream.

“I’m a grown man,” Bucky replied. 

She rolled her eyes. “And your point is? You spend most of your time here, anyway.”

Bucky gave a nondescript grunt, and the topic wasn’t brought up again, which he’s thankful for. Bucky can tell Natasha almost anything, but he doesn’t know how to tell her that sometimes, when his anxiety is really high and he feels like another word from anyone, even his best friend, might send him over the edge, he likes to go back to his dark, dusty bachelor pad and soak in the mood. He’s been working with his therapist on accepting the roller coaster that is his emotional stability, on just riding the wave and telling himself it’s okay to feel how he feels… and then moving on once it passes. It’s hard to do that with other people around, so for now, Bucky opts to keep his own place even if he spends ninety percent of him time with Natasha. 

Plus, he doesn’t know if he can handle living next door to Sam Wilson. Not because he dislikes Sam— he loves Sam, Sam is great, Sam feeds him grilled, delicious foods— but because Steve Rogers has the same co-dependency issue thing going on with Sam that Bucky has with Natasha, so he’s there. All the time. And while Bucky is definitely not a teenager, he’s pining like a goddamned forest.

He doesn’t know why Steve Rogers affects him so much, and to be honest, it frustrates him. Sure, Steve’s attractive— someone would have to be blind not to want to drink him up— but Bucky, when he goes for men, doesn’t usually go for men like Steve, who holds doors open for Natasha and pulls her chair out when she’s sitting down at the table, who helps old people cross the street, who would probably rescue a kitten from a tree and then give it a saucer of milk. The man seems like he belongs in a different era, and it’s not Bucky’s type. 

“You didn’t used to go for men like Steve,” Natasha agreed one night when they were talking about Bucky’s lack of relationships in the last few years. “Key words: used to. You’re a different person now, James. People change, especially in war. I think you’re getting too involved in what you think you’re supposed to want and what you actually want.”

“I don’t want him,” Bucky stressed. 

Natasha, bless her, rolled her eyes, she she didn’t push him and continues to remain silent. She knows that Bucky works at his own pace, but she gives him this sweet, piece of shit grin whenever Steve shows up on his Harley, because of course the man would ride a goddamned Harley. It’s a beautiful bike, and Steve is a beautiful man, and Bucky pines so, so badly.

And they hang out with Sam and Steve a lot, too, which makes it worse. Their little foursome has turned into a thing, the type where they have game nights every other week. Steve loves board games, and he’s competitive, but he doesn’t gloat when he wins, and he wins at Scrabble every single time. Most nights, the four of them can be found on someone’s porch, drinking beers and unwinding from the day.

Bucky does like it. He likes not being alone all of the time, likes that he can, for the most part, be himself around Sam and Steve. Except whenever he’s there, Bucky feels a magnetic pull towards Steve who laughs easily and opens jars for Natasha even though she can bench press Bucky and doesn’t avoid touching Bucky’s metal arm when he needs to get his attention. 

Natasha’s out of town, though, and Bucky doesn’t know if things would be weird without her there as a buffer, so he gets home from work, takes a shower, and then plops down on her living room couch with a bag of chips. He’s about five minutes in to what he expects to be a several day marathon of West Wing when there’s a knock at the front door. 

He doesn’t expect Steve to be standing there, but he is. 

“Hey, Buck,” he says and he smiles. “Sorry to bug you.”

“No problem at all,” Bucky manages. He’s dressed like a homeless person, but Steve is in dark jeans and a baby blue shirt, and damn, the man is gorgeous. “What can I do for ya? If you’re here for Natasha, she’s out of town and has left the house in my care.”

“She told me she was going out of town.”

Bucky raises a brow. “You’re not here to check on me, are you?”

Steve just blinks at him innocently.

“Steve,” he warns.

“Uh, no, of course not.” 

“What!” Bucky exclaims. “She didn’t.”

Steve’s guilty expression morphs into a grin. “No, she didn’t.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re a punk. What do you want, then? A cup of sugar?”

Steve, a man who’s the size of a house and has biceps the size of Bucky’s head, manages to look bashful. “Actually, I was wondering if you were busy.”

Bucky’s chest tightens, but he plays it cool and cocks his head to the side. “You on your own tonight? Where’s Sam?”

“He forgot that he agreed to dinner with a few of the other counselors at the VA.”

“You’re not gonna go back into the city?”

“I had a few beers waiting for him,” Steve admits and shifts his weight. “I don’t want to drive.”

“You weight like two-hundred and sixty pounds,” Bucky deadpans, “and you’re worried about being intoxicated after drinking two beers?”

Steve just shrugs.

Bucky shakes his head, but he steps aside and motions for Steve to enter. “You’re like a Boy Scout, Stevie. A saint. Jesus, even, except Jesus would have still driven home.”

Steve chuckles and walks inside. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Bucky closes the door and motions to his faded t-shirt and sweat pants as he heads back towards the couch. “I’m obviously going on a date. I mean, these are my fanciest clothes, Steve.” 

Steve raises a brow and looks Bucky up and down with a nod and a purse of his lips. “It’s a good look for you. Who’s the date?”

“You, I guess,” Bucky says before he thinks, and then he thinks about what he just said and hurriedly makes a show of plopping down on the couch all nonchalant-like. “You, Josh Liman, and these Doritos, actually.” He shakes the bag of chips. “You in?”

“I love West Wing,” Steve admits and sits down next to Bucky on the couch. 

They order pizza and drink a few beers, and any hesitation Bucky has about being around Steve increases by tenfold. Steve blushes when a laugh is startled out of him. He looks sheepish when he talks in the middle of a scene, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it again two minutes later. He fights Bucky over who’s paying for the pizza and gives in, but Bucky’s pretty sure he’s going to find a twenty dollar bill stashed somewhere because he thinks Steve is trickier than he lets on. Really, though, Steve is a genuinely nice person, which is why Bucky stops himself when the urge to straddle the other man and slot their lips together rears it’s head. 

Instead, Bucky takes a long gulp of his beer, and as he’s setting it back on the coffee stable, Steve gets excited for a certain episode, pokes Bucky a few times in his left arm, and doesn’t react when his fingers hit cold metal instead of warm skin. 

“It doesn’t bother you?” Bucky blurts out.

Steve starts. “I’m sorry, what?”

Bucky pauses the show, heart hammering, because why the hell is he even opening this can of worms. “The arm,” he says and holds it up. The light from the TV reflects in the metal panels, making it glow eerily. Bucky flexes his fingers. “It doesn’t bother you?”

Steve blinks a few times, then his lips curve into a smile that makes Bucky’s mouth dry. “Of course not. I think it’s wonderful, honestly, that you’re involved in the trial. It’s going to change a lot of lives once these prosthetics are more available.” He pauses and then adds, “Also, it looks awesome.” 

Bucky’s stomach clenches. “How are you so positive about everything?” he asks. “Like, the cup isn’t just half full, it’s overflowing for you.”

Steve’s smile softens and he runs a hand through his hair. He looks distant all of a sudden, like he’s a million miles away, and Bucky doesn’t know why, but the expression breaks his heart. 

“I mean,” Steve says after a few moments of quiet, “the lives we lead are short, you know? I could have died over there. Some men and women did, but I didn’t. The least I can do is take what was given to me, what was stolen from my friends and the brave soldiers I didn’t have a chance to meet, and make the best of it.”

“You’re the most sincere son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” Bucky laughs, but the sound is strangled. It took him months and months of self-medicating with alcohol, loneliness, and guilt to come to that conclusion, and here’s Steve, a few months out of the desert with his head on straight.

Steve shrugs. “It’s not sincerity. It’s selfishness, really.”

“I don’t know you all that well,” Bucky says with a smirk, “but I bet you’re probably the least selfish person on the planet.”

“That’s not true.” 

“Do you donate to the ASPCA when you see the sad commercials with puppies?”

Steve blushes.

Bucky snorts. “Oh my god, you do. Do you tear up a little bit? How many times have you had to stop yourself from going to the nearest shelter and adopting a do—”

A pillow slams into Bucky’s face. Steve, cheeks still bright pink, holds up the feather-stuffed weapon, threatening a second hit. “You’re kind of a jerk, Bucky Barnes.”

“I know!” Bucky says with a laugh. The joy feels like a billion butterflies in his stomach. “You’re bigger than me, but I’ve got a robot arm, and I’m from Brooklyn. I’d win.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Brooklyn? You’re from Brooklyn?”

“Born and raised.”

“Me, too.”

It turns out they grew up less than a mile from each other, and even though they went to different schools, Bucky can’t help but wonder. “Maybe we’ve met before and we didn’t even know it.”

Steve laughs and rubs at his face like he’s trying to hide. “You wouldn’t have recognized me if we did. I was scrawny as a kid, like really scrawny, and I was sick all the time. I missed a lot of school and I was never outside.”

“You, scrawny? I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. I was all sharp edges.”

“Well, definitely not sharp now,” Bucky mutters. 

Steve whacks his shoulder with the pillow. 

Bucky laughs, and as it tapers off, he and Steve lock eyes. The moment goes from fun to something else in a manner of seconds, and suddenly, Bucky feels reckless. It bubbles up and it takes every ounce of control he has not to kiss Steve right then and there. He hasn’t felt this kind of pull in a long time and it makes him feel sick and excited at the same time, like he’s at the top of a roller coaster about to fly down the first drop. He clenches and unclenches his fist, wonders what would happen if he did it. He doesn’t know what way Steve swings or doesn’t swing, though he feels like Natasha, for all of her teasing, would have warned him. 

“Steve,” he says, and they continue to stare at each other, and Bucky knows he sees something raw and needy reflected back at him, so he starts to lean forward.

And then there’s a knock on the door.

They both pull back and Steve stands like his ass in on fire. “I’ll get the door,” he says hurriedly and does just that. 

Bucky leans back against the cushions and scrubs his metal hand over his face, allowing it to cool his heated cheeks. It was a bad idea, a bad move, and he regrets it and then regrets it even more when Steve reappears looking hesitant and embarrassed. “Sam’s back,” he says, “ and I wasn’t answering my phone, and my bike was still here, so he decided to check if I was over here with you.”

Bucky smiles and nods and thinks, I’m going to drink the rest of the twelve pack once he leaves. “His powers of deduction are amazing.”

Steve tries to smile, but there’s still something tense behind it. “I had fun, Buck.”

“Me, too.”

Steve hesitates for a second before he leaves. Once the door shuts behind him, Bucky heads towards the kitchen. He downs a beer standing with the refrigerator door open, then grabs another and heads back into the living room. 

A few hours later, he’s completely drunk. He stumbles to the front door, locks it, and stubs his toe on the stupid table Natasha has by the front door. He contemplates putting his metal fist through it— he’s always maintained the thing was ugly— and then he notices that there’s a twenty-dollar bill tucked under the little porcelain bowl Natasha puts her keys in.

“Fuck me,” Bucky says miserably. 

He avoids Sam and Steve the rest of the weekend, which isn’t hard since he has a hangover to rival the king of hangovers. 

Bucky wakes up Monday morning to Natasha sitting on the couch with a newspaper spread across her lap and a cup of coffee in her hand. She’s got a cut above her right eye and her lower lip is busted, and she looks tired, just like she always does after a work trip. She doesn’t look up when Bucky walks into the living room, just motions towards the untouched cup of coffee on the table.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, sits on the couch next to her, and takes a sip. He doesn’t ask her what happened to her face— she never tells him about her work trips, even if he asks, so now he doesn’t ask. 

“I look like shit,” she says conversationally, “but you look worse.” 

Bucky sighs and slowly slides down, careful not to spill his coffee, and rests his head in Natasha’s lap. Her newspaper rustles under his head, but he doesn’t care. “It’s bad, Natalia.”

She runs her fingers through his hair. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Bucky laughs, or he thinks he laughs, but the sound is broken. “You said it yourself. War changes people.”

She leans forward so she can look him in the eye, and when he tries to look away, she grabs a handful of his hair and forces him to keep his head still. With a completely straight face, she says, “It’s okay to be scared, James. I can only imagine how hard it is for a robot to develop feelings.”

He rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. Natasha just smiles.

***

One of his coworkers injures himself, so Bucky picks up extra shifts at the body shop. He stays at Natasha’s most nights, but politely declines any invitations to go over to Sam’s for a beer, and even though he doesn’t ask to keep them away, Natasha doesn’t invite Sam or Steve over.

Natasha gives him space for a while, but at the end of the month, he walks in and she just states, “We’re going to Sam’s.”

“The only place I’m going to is bed,” Bucky mumbles and tries to push passed her, but she doesn’t budge. 

“I understand that you’re having a hard time with your little crush, but I’m tired of seeing Steve look disappointed every time I go there alone.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You’re fighting dirty.”

“I am,” she agreed without batting an eyelash. “I’ll allow you to go change because you smell like an oil slick, but if you’re not downstairs in five minutes, I will drag you down here.”

Bucky knows better than to argue, so he goes upstairs, washes up quickly and throws on clean clothing, and curses under his breath the entire time.

Sam and Steve both look surprised to see him when he and Natasha enter Sam’s backyard. There’s a fire pit that wasn’t there the last time Bucky was here. Steve stands next to it, a piece of wood in his hands. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, too, and Bucky almost groans at how ridiculous it is and how he’s actually kind of turned on by it.

Sam saves him by handing him a beer. “Bucky, long time. Nat tells me you’re working a lot.”

“Thanks, and yeah. Guy at the shop broke his hand,” Bucky replies. 

Sam purses his lips and nods. “You’re doing okay with the workload?”

“Yes, Ma,” Bucky laughs. “Doing really well, actually.”

“Well, take a seat and let’s burn some shit,” Sam says brightly.

Bucky takes the seat across from Steve’s, mostly because he thinks it will be better than sitting next to him. Except it’s harder to avoid looking at him this way, especially because Steve is just watching him, and even though he’s trying to be cool about it, he’s failing.

“Steve landed a gig illustrating a kid’s book,” Sam says with a grin. 

“Sam,” Steve warns, but it’s too late.

Natasha reaches out and grabs at his knee. “Steve, that’s wonderful.” 

“Yeah, Steve, that’s awesome,” Bucky adds. 

Bucky can’t tell if Steve’s blushing because of the orange glow of the flames, but he’d bet on it if he could. 

“Thanks,” Steve says with a chuckle. “I’m really excited.” 

Things are mostly normal after that. They laugh and talk and drink, and Bucky has more fun than any adult should throwing new logs into the fire. He admits to himself about half an hour in that he missed this. He’s always been an extrovert, and even though his capability of handling social situations has diminished, he’s not the type who can be lonely. 

It’s comforting, really, having the lull of friendly voices around him, and when his adult work schedule catches up with him, the smell of burning wood and the combined warmth from the alcohol and the fire make him sleepy. He let’s his head lull back and lets his heavy eyelids droop. He doesn’t sleep, just kind of zones out. When he opens his eyes again a while later, Natasha and Sam are still there, and they’re involved in an intense conversation, but Bucky doesn’t hear any of the words. All he can focus on is the way Steve is staring at him across the dying fire.


	4. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this thing about pining. You have been warned. :D Also, this is unbeta-ed, so apologies for any typos!

Steve spends most of October shut away in his office working on the children’s book he was commissioned for. It’s about rabbits and foxes getting along, and the story is ridiculous and adorable, and even though he basically has to turn himself into a shut-in, he doesn’t care.

There is a problem, though, that he wasn’t expecting. When he accepted the job, he didn’t realize how time consuming it would be. On top of that, working according to someone else’s deadlines isn’t anything he’s done before and it takes him a while to get into the swing of things. He watches the leaves turn from green to orange, red, and yellow from his window, and the few times he’s energetic enough to make the trip to Sam’s, he hardly sees Bucky.

Bucky. He really isn’t sure what to do about Bucky.

“You two are an exercise in stupidity,” Sam says. They’re decorating his house for Halloween. Halloween is Sam’s favorite holiday, and there are a decent amount of kids in the neighborhood, so he refuses to disappoint. Plus, he and Natasha are kind of competing even if they don’t openly admit it. 

Sam has fake cobweb stuck in his beard and Steve’s pointed it out twice, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

“That’s a bit harsh,” Steve says and flicks the plastic spider hanging from the ceiling. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Sam snorts. “Let’s see. You’re interested. He’s interested. What’s complicated about that?”

“I’m not ready to get involved with anyone, Sam,” Steve begins, but Sam cuts him off. 

“Stop hiding behind that excuse. This has nothing to do with you being ready or not, Rogers.”

“Then what does it have to do with?” Steve demands, annoyed.

Sam shrugs and raises a brow. “You tell me.”

Steve doesn’t really have an answer for him.

“Exactly,” Sam says with a smirk and hands Steve a new bag of fake cobwebs. “Now go use that on my front porch. Make it look good, soldier.”

By the time they’re done decorating that night, the house looks pretty impressive. Bloody handprints trail up the stairs and smear across the front door. A twisted-looking scarecrow hunches over on the chair. Random hands tear through the dying grass of his lawn, like the undead rising.

“What are you dressing as?” Sam asks as he walks Steve to his motorcycle that night. 

Steve tries not to notice that Bucky’s car is in Natasha’s driveway. “I don’t have a costume yet.”

Sam groans. “You disappoint me.” 

“I’ll come up with something,” Steve says sincerely. Little does Sam know, he’s already got a plan. 

***

The week goes by quickly, but the question Sam posed stays lodged in Steve’s head. He thinks about what’s holding him back when he works, when he’s at his VA meeting, when he’s eating dinner alone at his kitchen table, when he’s running in the morning. He thinks about how he and Bucky stared at each other across the fire, too, before Bucky looked away, stood up, and said it was time for him to crash with a weird smile on his face.

Steve has never considered himself a coward, but he wonders if he’s afraid. He just doesn’t know of what. It’s not commitment. If Steve is anything, it’s full of commitment because he doesn’t believe in giving anything but his all. 

He also wonders if it’s disappointment. There are still nights he wakes up sweating. There are mornings when he’s out for a run and someone’s care backfires and he has to use every single ounce of self control to stop himself from dropping to the cement. He never thought that he’d be this kind of soldier, the kind who suffers so much after coming home because while he was there, even as his friends and comrades, the men he was supposed to protect, died around him, he never faltered.

He doesn’t think he’d face disappointment with Bucky. If anything, Bucky Barnes would probably understand more than anyone, even more than Sam, but Steve doesn’t know if he’s ready to share it with anyone, mostly because he thinks he’s still disappointed in himself. 

***

He knocks on Sam’s door at one o’clock Saturday afternoon decked out in his Superman costume. He kind of went all out, buying one of the most expensive, realistic costumes he could find, and he feels a bit silly because the costume is tight and the cape is ridiculous, but when Sam sees him, the man’s face lights up like Christmas. He’s wearing an equally expensive Batman costume equipped with a utility belt and a Bat Signal that he’s shining out his window. 

“Steve,” Sam says, grinning like an idiot. “Oh, Steve. Steve Rogers. I love you, man. I love you so much.”

Steve can’t help it. He grins back. “I thought you would.” 

“I’m pretty sure the kids in the neighborhood are going to camp out on my porch.”

Steve’s grin widens. “You have no idea.”

Sam raises a brow, but before Steve can say anything else, someone calls, “Hey, boys.”

They both turn towards Natasha’s house. She stands on her porch, black wig in place and hands on her hips. She looks perfect in the Wonder Woman costume, which clings in all the right places. Her red boots hit just below her knees, her silver bracers glint in the afternoon sunlight, and she made the costume a bit more kid and October weather friendly by adding nude tights. 

She smiles sweetly and raises a brow. “Wanna see my lasso?”

Sam whistles and Steve laughs. A warmth spreads through him, starting in his chest and slinking into his belly. He never expected to have this, not so soon after coming home. He has no family; his ma passed away a few years ago, his dad was never in the picture, and he had no siblings. He had no friends growing up, definitely not any real ones not until he met Sam in the army when he was nineteen. And it was fine when it was just him and Sam, because Sam’s the best guy he’s ever met— Sam, who brings him home for the holidays because he’s got enough family to drown in.

There’s something about this moment, though, that just makes him want to wrap them both up in a bear hug. 

And then Bucky comes out of the house to stand next to Natasha.

He must have gotten Steve’s theme memo because he’s dressed as the Green Lantern. Like the rest of them, his costume is superhero tight, showing off every bunch of muscles, and he looks damned good in green and black. He’s got a black mask over eyes, which is just sinfully perfect, and his hair is combed back and out of his face, and damn, but the heat in Steve’s chest and belly boils over and turn into something else as his eyes meet Bucky’s. 

Even from this far away, he can see Bucky’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

For a brief moment, Steve considers throwing all of his apprehension to the wind, but then Sam, oblivious to the sudden tension stretching between the two houses, pulls on his Batman mask, raises a fist, and yells, “Justice League, assemble!”

The moment breaks and Bucky laughs, big grin splitting across his face. “That is not the Justice League’s catchphrase, Sam.”

“It is now!” Sam calls. Bucky and Natasha both snicker and raise their fists, so Steve follows suit. 

Steve and Bucky catch each other’s eyes once more before Sam shoves a giant bowl of candy into Steve’s hands.

“Prepare for the troops!” he yells. 

***

Sam wasn’t kidding when he said troops. 

They’re swarmed by kids in no time and then Steve doesn’t have any time to think. Anxiety swells in him at first, because there are so many kids and it’s so loud, and he’s never really been around kids, but the joy radiating from them all overtakes him. Natasha and Bucky, who stay on Natasha’s porch, look like they’re having an equally good time. Bucky, especially. Steve is surprised at how well he interacts with the kids considering he’s rough around the edges, but he thinks back to their first meeting when Bucky talked him down from the panic attack ledge, and then he’s not as surprised.

Sam has to run out to the gas station around four to get more candy. Steve’s pretty sure there are kids from the surrounding neighborhoods coming to see the Justice League. 

The insanity of it all is worth it because Sam’s face looks like it’s going to split in half, he’s smiling so hard.

Around seven, the crowds of children begin to disperse because it’s almost dark, and they’re out of candy, anyway, so they relocate— still costumed— to Natasha’s living room with beers and some sandwiches that she pulls out of her fridge. They deliberate for a while on which of the visiting kids had the best costume. It’s a toss-up between a very detailed Captain Jack Sparrow and a group of kids who were theme-dressed as characters from Doctor Who. 

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, Steve can’t help that his eyes keep trailing back to Bucky, who’s been relatively quiet since they settled in Natasha’s house. He stares off, beer held loosely by his right hand, left hand tapping the arm of the couch rhythmically. 

“How’s the book coming along?”

Steve tears his eyes away from Bucky’s fingers and smiles at Natasha. “Really well. It took me a while to get the hang of deadlines.”

“You’d think your soldier mentality would make it easier for you,” she says conversationally. 

“It’s just the opposite,” Steve laughs. “You have guidelines as a soldier. I have a general timeframe for this, but how I use my time is decided by me. I’m figuring it out, though.”

“That’s wonderful, Steve.” With a cat-like stretch, Natasha stands. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”

Sam stands, too, and Steve is pretty sure he sees him wink at Natasha. “I’m gonna use the bathroom. If I’m not out in ten minutes, assume I got stuck in this suit and you have to peel me out, Steve.”

They both leave. Steve and Bucky look at each other and offer small smiles, and even though they don’t seem forced, Steve feels the tension build. 

“So,” Steve says conversationally. “How’s work?”

“It’s good,” Bucky says, and Steve can’t help but notice that his hand tightens on his beer bottle. 

“I should bring my bike to your shop. She’s in need of a tune up.”

“I’m a fan of Harleys, but ogling them from afar is about as close as I come to them in the shop,” Bucky says with a short laugh. “You’ll wanna ask for Bill. The man is a master.”

“I’ll do that,” Steve says. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything to fill the silence that follows, and Steve doesn’t want to seem desperate, but as each second ticks by, something sets on fire inside of him. He has to say it, he realizes. He’s never been a coward, and he doesn’t think he should start now, especially because he’s wanting so badly and he hasn’t really felt like this since he came home. Or maybe ever. He can’t remember being drawn to something so much. So, he takes a deep breath. “Bucky—”

Bucky tenses like he’s just been given a death sentence, entire spine pulling straight, and something drops into the pit of Steve’s stomach that feels a lot like rejection. 

“At ease, soldier,” Steve says with a soft laugh. He drains the rest of his beer and stands. “Can you let them know I decided to head home? Not feeling too great all of a sudden. Too much candy, I think.”

Steve turns away before he says anything else stupid, and he’s almost to the front door when cold, metal fingers wrap around his wrist. He cranes his head to the right to find Bucky standing there, head bowed. Whatever product held his hair back most of the day has weakened, and dark locks fall into his face, hiding his eyes. 

“Is something wrong?” Steve asks gently. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, Buck, I just—”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m sorry if things have been weird,” he manages and lets go of Steve’s wrist. “You’re a good guy, Steve. I’m just in a weird place right now.”

Steve tries not to flinch. If he wasn’t sure about being rejected before, he’s pretty sure now. “It’s not a big deal, Bucky. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky tilts his head up and scans Steve’s face. He smiles, and it’s sad, and Steve just feels worse for it.

“Friends?” Bucky asks and holds out his right hand. 

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He bypasses Bucky’s right hand and grabs Bucky’s left with his own. The metal is cool against his own sweaty palm. “Friends,” he says with a smile. 

Bucky’s eyes go wide and he licks at his lips and swallows, and for a moment, Steve sees something wild reflected back at him. Bucky takes a step forward and pulls Steve towards him at the same time. “Steve,” he says, warns, and Steve feels everything in him heat up again. He wonders if he’s reading this all wrong. 

“James?”

They jump apart and stare at each other before Bucky runs a hand through his hair. 

“I’m gonna head home,” Steve says. “If Sam’s stuck in his costume, do me a favor and take photos.”

Bucky’s confused expression is replaced by an impish smile. “Sure, Stevie,” he says softly. 

Steve opens the door and leaves before he loses his mind.


	5. November

November gets cold fast. 

Natasha has a fireplace, so Bucky camps out at her place even more than usual even though he’s back to working part-time hours at the body shop. His cheap apartment has paper-thin walls and poorly sealed windows, and it’s freezing no matter how high Bucky cranks the heat or how many sweaters or blankets he wears. He’s never really liked the cold, but his tolerance only got worse after losing his arm because the cold is the only thing that really makes his left shoulder ache. There’s something about the iciness in the air that digs in deep and doesn’t let go. The way the prosthetic is hooked up to his nervous system is supposed to minimize any phantom pain, but Bucky still feels it once the cold settles in. 

It’s exceptionally cold about a week after Halloween, so he and Natasha are huddled on her couch watching reruns of Law and Order. The fire makes Bucky sweat a little, but he still snuggles under a fleece blanket with Natasha, their feet touching. They’ve both got mugs of hot chocolate, too, Natasha’s piled high with marshmallows. 

“I forgot to ask if you have plans for Thanksgiving.”

Bucky grunts.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’m going to take that as a no.”

“I have to see my family for Christmas,” Bucky says. “I’m not driving there for Thanksgiving.”

“It’s settled, then,” she says and picks a marshmallow from the top of her pile. She smiles as she pops it into her mouth.

“What’s settled?”

“You’ll come here.”

Bucky turns towards her and narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch? I’m not cooking.”

She snorts. “Of course you’re not cooking. I don’t have a death wish, James.”

Bucky steals one of her marshmallows and shoves it into his mouth before she can steal it back. “So what’s the catch, then? I can see there’s one by the way your beady little eyes are glinting mischievously.”

She shrugs and takes a sip of her cocoa, but the corner of her lip quirks up. “Sam isn’t going home, either.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Natalia.”

“Steve will be here, too.”

Bucky sighs and sinks back against the couch. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“You haven’t told me what happened, and I know something happened.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “I just want to move on, Nat. I really need to move on.”

“You don’t need to move on. You need to grab him by the collar and tell him how much you want to fu—”

“I tried that already!” 

The grins slips off of her face and her eyes widen. “What?”

Bucky scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, I didn’t use that exact language, but I’m trying, Nat. I really am. Except it’s like he and I are on different frequencies. One minute I think he’s interested, the next he pulls away, and I don’t have the patience for this kind of high school drama, Nat. It’s driving me insane.” Bucky swallows, torn between embarrassment and anger at the lump in his throat. “The night of Halloween, he was going to say something, and then he didn’t and tried to bail. I followed him to the door, and I almost kissed him after he grabbed my goddamned robot hand on purpose, and then you called for me.”

Natasha’s face softens in the way it hardly ever does. “Oh, James.” 

“I hardly know him, Nat,” he says gruffly. “Why do I feel like this?”

She shrugs. “I think there are people for everyone, people that you resonate with. He’s just one of those people.” She pauses and adds, “You’re one of those people for me.” 

Bucky puts a hand on Nat’s knee and squeezes. “Okay, person. Tell me what to do.”

“Tell him,” she says and scoots closer so that they’re squished together. She rests her head on his shoulder. “Tell him you want to try. The worst you’ll get is a ‘no,’ but at least you’ll have a definitive answer and you won’t be in limbo.”

Bucky nods and presses his cheek to her hair. “Okay.” 

“Good boy,” she murmurs. 

“I don’t know if I deserve him, Natalia.” Bucky closes his eyes and sighs. “He’s a good person— like, a genuinely good person.”

“So are you, James. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Bucky doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t say that out loud. Natasha knows, though, because she holds her mug of hot chocolate up in front of his face and wiggles it. Bucky snags a few marshmallows, presses a kiss to her hair, and then eats them. 

***

He doesn’t see Steve at all before Thanksgiving. Bucky isn’t sure if it’s his work on the children’s book, him avoiding Bucky, or a bit of both, but he tries not to dwell on it. It’s harder, though, with the cold, and he feels his mood sinking fast. Seasonal depression, his therapist tells him, and advises him to take more vitamin d, but Bucky knows that no amount of vitamin d in the world can erase the deep, aching tug that creeps through his scar tissue. 

His nightmares get worse when the pain worsens, too, and he wakes up most nights covered in a sheen of cold sweat, shirt and boxers drenched and the comforter flung off the bed. He hates his apartment, but it’s easier to fight through the nightmares when he’s alone. If he’s at Natasha’s place, she always crawls into bed with him and stays awake until he settles down, and then he feels an insane amount of guilt when she drinks extra coffee the next morning, make-up applied expertly to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes. 

Bucky’s ready to burn a goddamned bonfire in his apartment by the time Thanksgiving rolls around. He heads to Natasha’s early and is surprised to find Sam already in the kitchen. Not only is the oven on for the turkey, but Natasha has the fire roaring in the living room, so her house is insanely warm, so much so that Sam’s got his shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his sleeves rolled up. 

“Happy Thanksgiving, man,” Sam says and crushes Bucky in a hug.

“Happy Turkey Day,” Bucky replies and pats him awkwardly on the back. “It smells amazing in here.”

“I cook a mean bird, Barnes,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “And my mashed potatoes. You’ve never tasted anything like them.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Bucky laughs. “I starved myself in preparation. I’m ready.”

“I made you sweet potatoes,” Natasha says from the sink. She’s wearing an apron over her fitted turtleneck, an apron she hates but Bucky loves because he bought it for her a few Christmases ago. It’s got cats all over it. “Be useful and go set the table.”

Bucky grins and does as he’s told. He knows better than to argue with Natasha when she’s hosting an event, even if it’s just a holiday with friends. He’s got the plates and glasses down and is setting out napkins with silverware when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I got it!” Bucky calls. 

Steve stands on the other side of the door, his cheeks tinged pink from the cold. He’s got a covered casserole dish clutched in his hands and a hesitant smile on his face, and Bucky’s heart rate picks up, but he just smiles back. 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Cap,” Bucky says and steps to the side. “Welcome to the warmest house on the street.”

Steve’s smile turns a bit more sure as he walks in past Bucky. “You weren’t kidding,” he laughs. “Is Natasha expecting a blizzard?”

“Nah,” Bucky says conversationally as he takes the casserole dish from Steve’s hands so he can remove his coat. “Just a vet whose bum arm doesn’t like the cold.”

Steve’s smile softens as he hands up his coat. “You should try using wintergreen oil. You can massage it into your shoulder.”

Bucky’s brows raise. “What?”

Steve ducks his head sheepishly. “It sounds dumb, but it helps with pain.”

If it were anyone else, Bucky would make a quip about letting them massage it into him, but he can’t, not with Steve, so instead he says, “You’re full of surprises, Stevie,” and heads towards the kitchen. 

Steve doesn’t respond to that, but he follows Bucky. Natasha and Sam drop what they’re doing to hug Steve and exchange hellos, so Bucky sets the casserole dish on the counter and sneaks back into the dining room to finish setting the table alone. 

***

Sam, along with being a perfect human being, is also a fantastic cook, and Bucky is all but salivating by the time they sit down at the table. There’s way more food than the four of them will finish, including a twenty-pound bird, a pot of mashed potatoes drowning in butter, a dish of sweet potatoes covered in caramelized brown sugar, homemade cranberry sauce, vegetables Bucky could not care less about, and various kinds of casserole. 

“Before we eat,” Sam says, “I just want the three of you to know I’m thankful for you. I’m thankful I have good friends to share the holiday with since my family is a bit of a hike from here. I used to get really down about it, not being able to spend it with them, but you all are a good substitute.”

“And we are thankful to have a friend who can feed us on the holidays,” Bucky replies with a grin. 

Everyone laughs, and as it dies down, Steve speaks up. 

“I don’t have a family.” 

Bucky’s neck hurts, he turns it towards the other man so fast, but he’s surprised to find Steve smiling. 

“The holidays have been hard for me since I lost my mom a few years back,” he continues. “I used to be happy I was abroad because it wasn’t as hard to stomach, but then I was discharged, and it’s been especially hard since coming home. I feel at home here, though, and all of this means a lot to me.” He ducks his head and pauses, ears pink. “Thank you.”

Natasha smiles and says, “The same goes for me. I don’t have a family. You’re my family.” 

They’re all silent for a few moments, and Bucky feels stupid for making a comment about food when everyone else is being sentimental. A lump forms in his throat, and he reaches for his water glass when Sam claps his hands together and calls, “Let’s eat!” It doesn’t wash the lump down, but it gives him something to do with his hands, at least.

They eat, and laugh, and Bucky feels the tension ease away slowly. He wants to tell them that he appreciates them all, too, that he doesn’t think he’d have made it out of bed without Natasha and Sam’s help, didn’t think he’d be willing to give himself to anyone until Steve, but he doesn’t, just moans ridiculously as he shovels Sam’s mashed potatoes into his mouth. 

“I told you,” Sam says proudly. 

Bucky eats three servings of potatoes before he’s so full he’s pretty sure he’s gonna need to unbutton his pants.

He and Steve get stuck with clean up since Natasha and Sam covered the cooking. Steve, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, washes the dishes and hands them to Bucky to dry. They work like a conveyer belt, no talking, just washing, rinsing and drying, and Bucky can handle this, but he doesn’t want to. 

“Steve.”

Steve angles towards him slightly, one soapy hand gripping the sponge, the other a grimy fork. “Yes?”

“I’m kind of a mess,” Bucky admits, still scrubbing the dish he’s holding even though it’s already dry. 

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, dropping the fork and sponge gently into the soapy water.

“Things were hard for me when I came home. I still have nightmares. I still have days when I don’t want to leave my house. It took me the better part of a year to focus my energy, to start living my life again, but I still hold myself back.” He finally looks up at Steve, who is staring down at him earnestly. “I’m thinking it’s time to stop.” 

“What do you mean?” Steve whispers. 

Bucky sets the dry plate onto the counter and clears his throat. “I want to start taking what I want.”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it, and after swallowing, says, “That’s probably smart.”

“That’s what I keep telling him.”

They both turn towards the doorway. Steve’s just surprised, but Bucky feels murder bubbling up. 

Natasha stands there, both of her hands behind her back. She smiles sweetly. “I was thinking that since we’re all here, you two could help me decorate for Christmas.”

“Do we need to talk about this now?” Bucky asks, voice strained.

Natasha raises a brow, smile growing, and tosses something at him. The moment it hits Bucky’s hand, she turns to go. “Thanks, boys!”

Bucky looks down at the mistletoe, slightly crushed from his metal grip, and has to close his eyes, breathe in, and start to count. He curls his fingers over the stupid decoration again, willing it to disintegrate because that would surely help to break down the frustration kicking him in the heart. He feels torn between making a break for it out the back door or strangling Natasha. 

He doesn’t make it to ten before fingers wrap around his wrist. He opens his eyes and his mouth, ready to dole out some excuse for Natasha’s behavior, but Steve lifts their joined hands above their heads . He searches Bucky’s face with wide eyes, his cheeks growing pinker by the second.

“Steve,” Bucky croaks, “what’re you—“

“There are rules,” the larger man says, stumbling over the words. “You know, with mistletoe.” 

“What?” Bucky replies incredulously, a laugh bubbling out. It can’t be this easy, not after he made it so difficult for himself. 

Steve leans down and kisses him.


	6. December

It snows the first day of December.

Steve stands in his kitchen, leaning against the counter while the coffee brews. Outside of his window, large flakes plummet towards the ground. There’s enough snow that he can’t see the sidewalk, and according to the weather forecast, it’s not going to clear up anytime soon. He knows a lot of people will moan and groan about it, but Steve doesn’t care. He loves the snow— the way it smells, the way it falls, the way it crunches under his boots. 

“Your apartment is an icebox.” 

He looks over his shoulder to find Bucky standing in the doorway, wrapped in a comforter like a caterpillar in a cocoon. His hair is a knotted mess, and there’s an indentation on his cheek from the pillow, but he looks perfect. 

Steve’s stomach clenches and he wonders how it took them so long to finally fall into this, wonders why he resisted when he could have been this happy months ago. Bucky must read something on his face because the grumpy, played-up frown starts to slip away. Steve turns around quickly and grabs two mugs from the cabinet. “It’s not that cold.” 

“It really, really is,” Bucky whines, voice closer. “I’m freezing. It’s like your apartment is part of the Arctic.” 

Steve stiffens when Bucky’s hands suddenly snake around him. His left hand, the metal one, is colder than the right, and Bucky purposefully sneaks the fingers of that hand beneath the hem of his t-shirt. 

Steve hisses and swats at him. “Bucky!” 

Bucky laughs into Steve’s ear, his breath hot, and says, “I told you it’s cold!” He removes his hand and settles it on Steve’s hip, but he doesn’t move away. He nestles against Steve instead, cheek and nose and lips ghosting against the side of Steve’s neck. “You’re warm, though.” 

The coffee finishes, but Steve doesn’t move to pour it. He closes his eyes and breathes in, leaning back into the warmth of Bucky’s. 

“You all right, Cap?” Bucky asks gently. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” Steve laughs. “I’m glad you’re here, is all.”

Bucky remains silent at first, but feels the sharp intake of breath and the way his heart thumps hard enough that Steve can feel it against his back. He keeps his eyes closed, tries not to move. 

“Me, too,” Bucky says finally, arms tightening around Steve until his fingers are linked. “I didn’t think you’d want me, honestly.”

“What?” Steve exclaims with a laugh. He turns around in Bucky’s arms and looks down at the frown. “Why would you think that?”

“Look at me,” Bucky says.

“I am,” Steve says sincerely.

Then he almost chokes when Bucky steps back and drops the comforter to the kitchen floor.

Bucky’s just in his briefs. He’s had his hands all over Bucky since Thanksgiving, but it’s always been in the dark, always with the lights off, and Steve wasn’t going to push the issue, not yet. He knows Bucky’s got a thing about the arm, and he doesn’t blame him even though he thinks it’s fascinating and beautiful. 

But now Bucky is standing there almost naked in the cloudy morning light and Steve can’t help it. His eyes travel hungrily down Bucky’s chest and stomach, over his groin. He wants to step forward and watch his fingers ghost over Bucky’s skin, wants to see his face when Steve kisses him, except he knows Bucky’s does this for a reason, so Steve looks. He really looks. 

Pink scars decorate Bucky’s skin. They’re scattered across his chest, his side, even his legs. Steve follows them up to his shoulder to the red, gnarled scar tissue where the prosthetic arm attaches to his shoulder. There’s such a stark difference between the damaged flesh and the metal, but something about it is beautiful. Steve takes a step forward, and when Bucky doesn’t move, he reaches up and traces the border where metal and skin meet. 

Bucky shivers visibly, goosebumps flaring across his skin. “Steve.”

“I didn’t think I deserved you,” he admits, and when Bucky starts to argue, he adds, “not all scars are visible, Buck. I’m not perfect.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky says immediately, and then blushes. “I just mean that… just that you’re…” He runs a hand through his hair. 

Steve laughs and while Bucky struggles for words, he leans down and kisses him. Bucky immediately melts against him.

“Oh my god, I need to turn up the heat!” Steve laughs against Bucky’s lips, trying to wiggle away from Bucky’s metal hand, which is planted firmly on his waist. 

“But it’s not cold in here, Cap,” Bucky says, inching them backwards until Steve is pressed against the counter. “It’s like Hawaii. Toasty warm.”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.” 

Bucky’s metal hand eventually warms after being pressed to Steve’s skin and they stumble, lip-locked and breathless, to the bedroom, the coffee forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! :)


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